


Cadenza

by dragonofdispair



Series: The Perfect Song [4]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, medical drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-09 05:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: It’s been too long. Prowl still isn’t back to normal — what passed for normal anyway, before Jazz — and can’t be trusted without supervision.





	Cadenza

**Author's Note:**

> Bleh. This was supposed to be a long story, but I couldn’t get into it. So I’m going to come around to this from a different (unfortunately shorter) angle and post this as a snippet.

Fresh from another meeting (read “arguement”) with the police department’s Budget Committee regarding the “misuse” of medical resources”, First Aid did not have the energy to even be surprised to walk into his office and find a pair of feet on his desk. They were nice feet. Deep, rich red and blue with a pair of brand new studded snow tires inset into the lower legs. Nice feet. But they were  _ on his desk. _

“Feet,” he tried to snap, “off the desk.”

Completely unrepentant and totally unaffected by First Aid’s attempt at a harsh tone, Smokescreen looked up from the tablet he was reading. “You used to appreciate parts,” he waggled his brow-ridges ridiculously, “of me being on your desk.”

“Even if that were still true,” First Aid responded tiredly, giving up on trying to force Smokescreen to do anything he didn’t want to. It was useless anyway. He’d have been tempted to say stubbornness and disregard for authority was paradoxically hardwired into police frames, but he knew better. Just because he was having issues with two different policemechs (who were, he forced himself to remember, despite outward similarities  _ completely _ different frametypes who didn’t have a circuit in common otherwise) did not mean that extended to the entire caste. “It’s still office hours.”

Smokescreen chuckled. “That’s true.” And he took his feet from First Aid’s desk with an over enthusiastic  _ thump. _

“So?”

“So…” Smokescreen drew out the word gleefully. First Aid glared. His glare had previously been compared to that of a turbofox pup’s after being woken from a nap, but it usually was enough to herd stubborn policemechs into line anyway. Smokescreen held out a moment, then a moment longer just to show he could, then relented. “So will I back up your play and suggest keeping Prowl here, in medical isolation, for the foreseeable future? Yes. Absolutely.”

“Thank you, Smokescreen,” First Aid murmured, suddenly relieved. Smokescreen wasn’t just one of the department’s criminal profilers, but he took shameless advantage of his dual-caste status to act as a psychiatrist, providing cheap therapy to prison inmates who needed it. Studies had shown that counselling decreased the rate of recidivism and Smokescreen was not shy about throwing those studies into the faces of anyone who objected to Smokescreen providing any sort of care to convicted criminals. Prowl, though, wasn’t convicted of anything. Not yet. Not at all, if First Aid had anything to say about it.

“No problem, Firstie,” Smokescreen grinned at First Aid’s annoyed look. He’d always hated that nickname and  _ Smokie _ knew it. “Wasn’t a great hardship. Only favor was taking a look at him in the first place. Came to the conclusion that here is the right place for him all on my own.” He tossed the tablet he’d been reading onto the desk between them.

“Oh?” First Aid picked up the tablet. It was one of his own, the one he brought with him to check ups and used to access the medical database and take notes on medical files stored on the clinic’s main computer. Prowl’s was already brought up and Smokescreen had already added an entire new subsection of notes. 

“Until he actually commits a crime, he can’t be tried and convicted and sent to a prison that would actually hold him. And it’d have to be one of the off-world supermax prisons to even have a chance. His tac suite is just too good. He’ll escape from anything else. Even then, there’s no guarantee that he could be held long enough to get him there. He  _ takes things apart _ in a way and at a speed none of us can imagine.” Smokescreen spun in First Aid’s chair while First Aid scrolled frantically through the notes and didn’t find what Smokescreen was saying. He huffed. “Same’s true of most tactical models — police AND military — but those mechs you can go in and turn the tac suit off; Prowl’s is always on full speed ahead no matter what anyone does. That’s not in my notes, by the way,” Smokescreen grinned. “That’s from yours.”

First Aid huffed again. “I’m aware of the issues regarding Prowl’s tac suite and its effects. I need a reason to keep him  _ here, _ rather than another person saying he should be transferred out of my custody.”

“Sure,” Smokescreen said easily, spinning again. “Like I said, he can’t actually  _ be _ sent to one of the prisons that has an icicle’s chance in a smelter of holding him. Barring that, Prowl stays exactly where Prowl thinks he should be. The minute he’s released or transferred out of your custody, we’re going to have a celebrity kidnapping case on our hands, and all the justification we could need to transfer him to a prison, but since that is  _ not _ a desirable outcome, he should stay right where he is. Under  _ your _ authority. That’s my recommendation, as the psychiatrist in charge of his condition.”

“MY authority?” First Aid asked, surprised, scrolling through Smokescreen’s notes again. There was his recommendation at the bottom:  _ Until he is safe to release into the general public again, Prowl should under no circumstances be taken from under First Aid’s supervision. _ “Why?”

“Really, Firstie? You’re not stupid,” Smokescreen said. “He’s been here most of a vorn already. If an on-planet prison can’t hold him, what’s he still doing in this turborat trap?” First Aid huffed again at his clinic — the nicest the department budget could afford — being called a  _ turborat trap. _ “You’ve done your best to lock up his room tight, but a secure supermax cell it is not.”

“You’re suggesting he stays here because of me?”

“I’m not  _ suggesting _ anything, Firstie; I am outright  _ stating _ it: he listens to you. He recognizes and respects — within the boundary of his current emotional capabilities of course — you as his primary moral authority. He will stay where  _ you _ tell him to, and as long as you don’t give him a loophole to work with, he will set aside his own desires because you tell him to, because he trusts that those stipulations are to prevent harm. No one else has that power over him.” Smokescreen spun the chair again. “As for your medical opinion that Prowl’s issue is entirely medical, I can’t say for certain. It’s a design flaw for sure, not anything trauma induced or the result of a bad spark. I agree reprogramming, having failed to fix anything in the past would just be beating our heads against a brick wall. Won’t fix him. Therapy? He managed his condition before, and maybe he’d learn to manage again if he’d actually participate in therapy, but since he won’t, he needs to be kept in the only facility that has any chance of keeping contained —  _ yours.” _

.

.

.

end


End file.
